Send me email updates about messages I've received on the site and the latest news from The CafeMom Team.
By signing up, you certify that you are female and accept the Terms of Service and have read the
Privacy Policy.

Dear Less-Than-Perfect Mom

I've seen you around. I've seen you screaming at your kids in public,
I've seen you ignoring them at the playground, I've seen you unshowered
and wearing last night's pajama pants at preschool drop-off. I've seen
you begging your children, bribing them, threatening them. I've seen you
shouting back and forth with your husband, with your mom, with the
police officer at the crosswalk.

I've seen you running around with your kids, getting dirty and
occasionally swearing audibly when you bang a knee. I've seen you
sharing a milkshake with a manic 4-year-old. I've seen you wiping your
kids' boogers with your bare palm, and then smearing them on the back of
your jeans. I've seen you carry your toddler flopped over the crook of
your arm while chasing a runaway ball.

I've also seen you gritting your teeth while your kid screamed at you
for making him practice piano, or soccer, or basket weaving or whatever
it was. I've seen you close your eyes and breathe slowly after finding a
gallon of milk dumped into your trunk. I've seen you crying into the
sink while you desperately scrub crayon off your best designer purse.
I've seen you pacing in front of the house.

I've seen you at the hospital waiting room. I've seen you at the pharmacy counter. I've seen you looking tired and frightened.

I've seen a lot of you, actually.

I see you every single day.

I don't know if you planned to be a parent or not. If you always knew
from your earliest years that you wanted to bring children into the
world, to tend to them, or if motherhood was thrust upon you
unexpectedly. I don't know if it meets your expectations, or if you
spent your first days as a mom terrified that you would never feel what
you imagined "motherly love" would feel like for your child. I don't
know if you struggled with infertility, or with pregnancy loss, or with a
traumatic birth. I don't know if you created your child with your body,
or created your family by welcoming your child into it.

But I know a lot about you.

I know that you didn't get everything that you wanted. I know that
you got a wealth of things you never knew you wanted until they were
there in front of you. I know that you don't believe that you're doing
your best, that you think you can do better. I know you are doing better
than you think.

I know that when you look at your child, your children, you see
yourself. And I know that you don't, that you see a stranger who can't
understand why the small details of childhood that were so important to
you are a bother to this small person who resembles you.

I know that you want to throw a lamp at your teenager's head
sometimes. I know you want to toss your 3-year-old out the window once
in a while.

I know that some nights, once it's finally quiet, you curl up in bed
and cry. I know that sometimes, you don't, even though you wanted to.

I know that some days are so hard that all you want is for them to
end, and then at bedtime your children hug you and kiss you and tell you
how much they love you and want to be like you, and you wish the day
could last forever.

But it never does. The day always ends, and the next day brings new
challenges. Fevers, heartbreak, art projects, new friends, new pets, new
fights. And every day you do what you need to do.

You take care of things, because that's your job. You go to work, or
you fill up the crock pot, or you climb into the garden, or strap the
baby to your back and pull out the vacuum cleaner.

You drop everything you're doing to moderate an argument over whose
turn it is to use a specifically colored marker, or to kiss a boo-boo,
or to have a conversation about what kind of lipstick Pinocchio's Mommy
wears.

I know that you have tickle fights in blanket forts, and that you
have the words to at least eight different picture books memorized. I've
heard that you dance like a wild woman when it's just you and them.
That you have no shame about farting or belching in their presence, that
you make up goofy songs about peas and potatoes and cheese.

I know that an hour past bedtime, you drop what you're doing and trim
the fingernail that your 3-year-old insists is keeping her up. I know
that you stop cleaning dishes because your kids insist you need to join
their tea party. I know you fed your kids PB&J for four days
straight when you had the flu. I know that you eat leftover crusts over
the sink while your kids watch "Super Why."

I know you didn't expect most of this. I know you didn't anticipate
loving somebody so intensely, or loathing your post-baby body so much,
or being so tired or being the mom you've turned out to be.

You thought you had it figured out. Or you were blind and terrified.
You hired the perfect nanny. Or you quit your job and learned to
assemble flat-packed baby furniture. You get confused by the conflict of
feeling like nothing has changed since you were free and unfettered by
children, and looking back on the choices you made as though an impostor
was wearing your skin.

You're not a perfect mom. No matter how you try, no matter what you do. You will never be a perfect mom.

And maybe that haunts you. Or maybe you've made peace with it. Or maybe it was never a problem to begin with.

No matter how much you do, there is always more. No matter how little
you do, when the day is over, your children are still loved. They still
smile at you, believing you have magical powers to fix almost anything.
No matter what happened at work, or at school, or in playgroup, you
have still done everything in your power to ensure that the next morning
will dawn and your children will be as happy, healthy, and wise as
could possibly be hoped.

There's an old Yiddish saying: "There is one perfect child in the world, and every mother has it."

Unfortunately, there are no perfect parents. Your kids will grow up
determined to be different than you. They will grow up certain that they
won't make their kids take piano lessons, or they'll be more lenient,
or more strict, or have more kids, or have fewer, or have none at all.

No matter how far from perfect you are, you are better than you think.

Someday your kids will be running around like crazy people at
synagogue and concuss themselves on a hand rail, and somebody will still
walk up to you and tell you what a beautiful family you have. You'll be
at the park and your kids will be covered in mud and jam up to the
elbows, smearing your car with sugary cement, and a pregnant lady will
stop and smile at you wistfully.

No matter how many doubts you might have, you never need doubt this one thing: You are not perfect.

And that's good. Because really, neither is your child. And that
means nobody can care for them the way you can, with the wealth of your
understanding and your experience. Nobody knows what your child's squall
means, or what their jokes mean, or why they are crying better than you
do.

And since no mother is perfect, chances are you are caught in a two billion way tie for Best Mom in the World.

Send me email updates about messages I've received on the site and the latest news from The CafeMom Team.
By signing up, you certify that you are female and accept the Terms of Service and have read the
Privacy Policy.